The Worth Series: Complete Collection

by Lyra Evans

  The moment the yawning black of the portal disappeared, Oliver began to kick upward, holding fast to Nimueh and Connor’s hands. Unwilling to risk the possibility of losing either of them to the surging, rushing waters around them, he pulled them both toward what he hoped was the surface.

  After a moment, Nimueh began to kick as well, and Oliver felt magic wash over him as she cast, again and again, aiding their ascent with spells. Connor tightened his grip on Oliver’s hand and kicked with all his strength at the water, propelling them forward still faster. They broke the surface finally, in a desperate suction of breath and relief, only to be dragged sideways toward a crown of rocks.

  “Get to shore!” Nimueh called out, still casting spells on all three of them, urging their bodies to the right while the water tried to force them onward toward the rocks. Connor and Oliver kicked and swam, Oliver trying to cast spells to boost Nimueh’s magic, but his collar was tied to his jeans, in his pocket rather than anywhere useful to direct the magic, and his spells were unstable.

  Connor finally gathered Oliver into his arms and used a nearby boulder as a platform, pushing off it like a bullet through a chamber, launching them both at the edge of the shore. Oliver gripped the stones at the edge, Connor holding fast to him, and they managed to heave themselves up out of the water. Nimueh was already on her feet on the shore, her clothes dripping wet, her spells slow to dry them after the sudden burst of spent magic in the water.

  Panting and exhausted, Oliver cast a look over the water to take in their surroundings. They were at the mouth of a cave, at the base of a cliff, surrounded by the jungle-forest of Maeve’s Court. The water flowed rapidly, roughly down a wide river littered with sharp rocks and protruding stones. The rapids crashed against the outcroppings, creating deadly vortices along the current. Heart in his throat, Oliver had to wonder how safe Maeve’s secret escape portal really was in comparison to the Special Response Squad.

  “It had to be somewhere no one would stumble across the portal by accident,” Nimueh said, as though in answer to his unasked question. “I told her it was mad, but Maeve is—well, Maeve.” She sighed mournfully, and Oliver shared her concern. He hoped that both Maeve and Lucia would be all right.

  As an afterthought, Oliver cast drying spells on his own clothing as well as Connor’s, Nimueh’s clothing finally having shed their water. Connor sniffed the air, searching around them for some marker of their location. Spent and needing refuelling, Oliver decided to let Connor take the lead on this one, and instead tried to re-stabilize his breathing and heart rate. As he calmed himself, the panic of the water vanished, allowing him to sense the magic around him again. After all the spells she cast, Nimueh’s magical signature washed over Oliver, imprinting on his mind indelibly. The first ray of sunlight after a storm, the first cricket of a summer night, and the taste of fresh mint on the tongue—her signature was lightness and small wonders, the very heart of magic. It was the awe of a thunderstorm and the height of a sycamore, the creaking of a well-used swing set and the taste of ripe watermelon. Oliver revelled in it for a moment.

  “Do you know yours?” Nimueh asked, studying him. He looked up, cheeks burning. She smiled. “I’ve honed my sense for magical signatures over the years as well. An old art form, seldom studied anymore. They say it can be unreliable, but if you know what you’re looking for, it’s more unique than a fingerprint.”

  Oliver swallowed, somewhat nervous. A magical signature could feel different to different people, his own signature experienced differently by himself and by others. “What is it?” he asked, and Nimueh pressed a hand to his bicep to reassure him.

  “Peppermint and chocolate, melting on the tongue, blowing bubbles as a child in the sunlight and watching the rainbow of colours reflected on the surface,” she said. “It’s licking your lips after your favourite dessert and feeling the exact person you want taking your hand. It’s the smell of citrus and the refreshment of water after a long walk in the sun. It’s beautiful.”

  Neck hot and flushing beneath his shirt, Oliver smiled and nodded at her, grateful for the insight. A hand grasped Oliver’s, entwining their fingers gently, a thumb rubbing soft circles over the back of his hand, and Oliver smiled wider, now understanding exactly what one part of his signature felt like. He turned to Connor who looked back with the same pleasure in his eyes.

  “We should get moving,” Connor said, quiet and careful, as though he didn’t want to disrupt the moment but had no choice. Oliver nodded. “The border to your Court lies that way,” Connor said to Nimueh, pointing upriver toward the flattest path. “It shouldn’t take you more then an hour or two to get there on foot, but I suggest keeping to the line of trees as much as possible. Find a shelter just this side of the border to send your messages and wait. If it suits you, your Majesty,” he added, remembering the customs of Nimueh’s Court. Nimueh nodded deeply to him.

  “Thank you, Connor,” she said. “I will. Where will you go?”

  Oliver held up the chain Lucia had given them. It was woven of copper and steel, tipped with a feather carved of birch wood, and on the end of it hung a simple key. Taking the key between his fingers, Oliver suddenly had a vision of their route, up the cliff side and around, through the jungle-forest to a small cabin on the edge of another cliff.

  “Lucia will show us the way,” Oliver said, a small smile on his lips. “Will you be all right?”

  Nimueh nodded. “I may be Queen, Oliver, but I trained with the Royal Military Corps in my youth.” She pulled up the edges of her sweater and tied the corners around herself, creating a makeshift pouch to carry resources on her back. “I’ll be fine.” With a second look at them, she bowed her head again. “Good luck to you both. May the Moon guide you to her light.” It was a Werewolf blessing, an ancient prayer for safety and success. Connor and Oliver bowed low to her, Connor pressing his head low as he would have for Logan. Perhaps in his honour.

  They separated, each bearing the weight of a kingdom on their shoulders. Oliver hoped, as he led Connor up the cliff side, that they wouldn’t fail the Three Courts. Even if the Moon guided them, Oliver worried they’d need the help of all the sky’s children to save their kingdoms.

  Chapter 22

  The night wore on, a bruise settling over the jungle-forest, lightening only in Oliver’s mind as they cut through thick, mossy vines and dense underbrush. He was sure they’d been walking for hours, but every glance at the canopy above told him it was still, in fact, night. Starlight was peppered through the canopy only in the most sparsely wooded areas, and as they followed the path the key had written in Oliver’s head, he was beginning to think the jungle-forest would never end. Cedars on top of poplars on top of beech on top of redwoods, and oak with Jordan trees and palms littered throughout, the jungle-forest made no ecological sense. There were vines and bamboo shoots and firs and pinecones dissolving in the mulch on the ground. The lower lands were thick and murky with the constitution of a marsh, while the raised areas looked much like the boreal forest.

  Connor stopped behind him; Oliver hearing the sudden lack of a squish sound as Connor halted in the marshland. Oliver stopped too, turning to see what it was his lover was doing. Worn and running on far too little sleep, Oliver was beginning to consider any relatively dry patch of moss a better option for rest than the elusive cabin they were after.

  “We should keep moving,” Oliver said, willing himself to sound determined more than drained, but he was sure Connor didn’t buy it. Connor, meanwhile, was staring at a thick, green bamboo shoot, licking his parched lips. “What are you—”

  But before his eyes, Connor raised a hand, transforming it to a paw, and sliced cleanly at the bamboo with his claws. The stalk immediately swayed sideways, toppling into Connor’s outstretched arms. He sliced again, cutting it down to a less unwieldy size, then sliced just below one of the section marks on the stalk.

  Oliver watched, expressionless in his exhaustion, as Connor tipped the cut stalk up to his lips and drank dee
ply. Connor downed the entire contents of the bamboo stalk, spilling only a few drops of water over his face. He lowered the stalk, wiped his face, and found Oliver watching him silently.

  “There’s potable water in these,” he said, much too late, as Oliver had already cottoned on. “Here,” he said, and cut a section for Oliver. Squinting pointedly at his lover, Oliver took the stalk and did as Connor had, tipping it to his mouth. The water wasn’t cold, but it was satisfying nonetheless. He chugged it all, his body whining in relief. Once he was done, he felt marginally more awake.

  “Thanks,” he said. “We should bring a couple with us, maybe,” Oliver said. “In case it’s still far.”

  Connor deflated, apparently still clinging to the hope that they were only around the corner from the cabin. He nodded and cut down two more sections. Oliver plucked some tall grass from nearby and spelled it to attach to the bamboo as a rudimentary sling. Each taking one stalk, they threw them over their shoulders and continued on.

  They waded out of the marsh, barely aware of the water snakes slipping along the surface or the frogs croaking nearby, and trudged back onto drier land filled with brambles. With a heavy sigh, Oliver cast small spells to brush aside the rougher branches and foliage, trying to ease their path as much as possible. Their clothes remained wet, largely to allow them to keep cool in the muggy heat of the night. Without the sunlight beaming down on them, they should have grown cold from the wet garments, but the jungle-forest was so strangely insulated, no heat escaped the canopy.

  “I think we’re close now,” Oliver said, hoping the feeling that ballooned in his chest was true and not just a last, desperate delusion of his struggling body.

  Connor followed close as Oliver turned by a thick copse of trees with a redwood at the centre large enough to build a house in. With a jerk and a clamp over his mouth, Oliver was yanked backward behind a tree, Connor’s hand gagging him.

  Heart pounding, breathing shallow, Oliver glared at Connor as he tried to calm himself. Connor, meanwhile, was staring wide-eyed ahead of them. Oliver followed his gaze and found the source of his concern.

  Just beyond the tree Oliver was behind, a herd of unicorns stood grazing, picking away at the bark on the various trunks, stripping them bare. Brilliant and white as a cold star, the unicorns pawed gently at the ground as they moved about. Their manes shone like silver light, spun by moon moths in the depth of winter, their horns twisted and curled like golden crystal. A high whinnying, followed by a low, melodic call told Oliver there were foals scattered among the herd, the low call coming from busy mares, summoning their children back to their sides.

  Connor slowly lowered his hand from Oliver’s mouth once he realized Oliver had seen the same danger. Unicorns were reclusive creatures, generally inhabiting the deepest parts of the least-travelled forests, and mostly that was the way it should have been. People of all Three Courts, no matter what species, didn’t see much of unicorns, and unicorns didn’t see much of them. But there were always the reckless, arrogant few who bought in to the old stories about unicorn horns and blood. They’d go out in search of a herd to try and kill one, or capture it, and be lauded a hero.

  Oliver had dealt with more than one case of an idiot death by unicorn. They were fiercely loyal creatures, and deeply distrustful of humanoids. He didn’t understand how it was he needed to keep explaining to people that the horn on their heads wasn’t just there to look pretty. It was a deadly weapon, and unicorns were lightning fast.

  Catching a herd off-guard was dangerous enough, but a herd with foals was even more volatile. Any perceived threat to the babies—any threat at all—and Oliver and Connor wouldn’t have to worry about solving Logan’s murder anymore. They’d be headlining their own case files.

  Probing Oliver gently to get his attention, Connor gestured toward the unicorns and shrugged, clearly asking what to do next. Oliver glanced back at the unicorns. The unmistakable scent of crystal magic was on the air—unique to unicorns and desperately intoxicating. It smelled of first love and the dizziness of drink just before drunkenness. It was the rainbow on the wall when light shone through a prism; it was the smell of old books and the first breath of fall. Oliver steadied himself against the tree, trying to clear his mind of the crystal magic.

  Unicorns were dangerous, yes, but because of their mistrust of humanoids and desire to protect their foals, they were also easily spooked. If they heard something unidentifiable in the distance, it might whip them into motion, getting them to run away. If Oliver could place it correctly.

  Without any means of communicating his plan to Connor, who no doubt would tell him it was a mental idea, Oliver pulled him close shielding them as best he could amid the tightly packed trees of the copse. Then, looking out through the dense foliage of the jungle-forest, he pinpointed a spot that, hopefully, would get the unicorns to run in the opposite direction—away from both Connor and Oliver and their path to the cabin.

  Summoning the last dregs of energy he had, Oliver called to mind a spell and focused it on a single, low-hanging branch. He released the spell, hoping it would still be effective without a diamond to channel it. The cutting spell hit the branch, slicing a deep gash into the joint where the limb met the trunk. But the gash wasn’t deep enough; the branch hung lower, but didn’t fall. Frowning, Oliver tried again, wearing himself to nothing, sending spell after spell at the same spot, hoping he could snap it quickly enough for the branch to make an abrupt sound as it tumbled.

  Finally, one of his spells cut clean through the branch, and the heavy limb fell from the tree. It landed on a pile of brambles and dried twigs beneath, snapping the drier wood and causing a low, reverberating crack to sound through the area.

  Peeking around the tree, Oliver saw the unicorns jerk their heads up as one, all heads turned toward the source of the sound. A beat passed, then another, and as if they were of one mind, all the unicorns of the herd sprang away, galloping toward—

  Toward Oliver and Connor. Oliver cried out in surprise, and suddenly Connor was beneath him, wide haunches covered in white fur, his body bounding to the side, away from the stampeding unicorns and the tight thicket of trees. Oliver threw his arms around Connor’s neck, desperately holding on, as Connor’s claws bit into the bark of a tree and climbed up as far as he could.

  They waited tense moments, Oliver clinging like a baby koala to Connor’s back, heart racing, as the herd of unicorns stampeded out toward where Oli and Connor had come from. After an interminable time, the hoof beats faded away in the soft earth of the jungle-forest, and Connor released slowly, sliding back down the tree. Oliver released his lover, stepping cautiously back to ground, his shoulders still braced for possible impact. But the unicorns were gone now.

  Connor transformed back to himself, his fingernails ringed with blood—his own. He’d pulled at the beds of his claws by holding fast to the trunk of the tree. Wolves were not built for that kind of behaviour. Oliver reached out and took Connor’s hands, kissing them gently. Connor pressed a kiss to Oliver’s forehead.

  “Next time you plan to do something like that,” Connor said, stretching out his shoulders, “don’t.”

  Oliver laughed. “And to think I had that unicorn hunting trip planned for our honeymoon.” He regretted it the moment he said it, reminding them both of just how far from where they wanted to be they were. Would there even be a honeymoon once this was all said and done? Would they make it through to see it? Would they ever even see their bonding ceremony? Oliver swallowed against the tightness in his throat. Bare feet in the grass, shrouded in his handmade cape, he had been so scared, so unsure of the future and what he wanted. Now, wearing shoes soaked in marsh-water and an increasingly itchy shirt beneath an endless, jungle-forest night, Oliver didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself for those moments of doubt. Did he bring this on them? Had the Moon and Stars heard his doubt and decided against their Fated love?

  A soft press of lips to his temple, Oliver sighed into Connor’s kiss. “One way
or another, I will have you, bonded to me, beneath the Moon, and drawing me inside you.” Oliver shivered. In a conspiratorial whisper, Connor added, “Not even the Moon Herself can stop me.”

  Oliver turned and pulled Connor into a kiss, slow and mournful, apologizing for things that were beyond his control. Connor kissed him back with the same fervour, with the same desperate emotion. They pulled apart, the dappled starlight barely lighting their faces, and Oliver nodded sideways toward the path.

  “It’s not far now,” he said, and they continued on.

  It only took crossing another marsh, using a fallen log as a bridge over distant rapids, and free-climbing a short cliff for them to finally reach the cabin. Made of thick logs locked together by their own weight, the cabin was a smallish, square structure with clay-tiled roof and stone chimney peeking out from the side. A stack of firewood sat along the edge of the cabin, and the door was made of a single solid piece of wood. The entire cabin was washed in a driftwood grey, as though it had long lost its battle with the sun and ocean, bleached through to the core.

  With strength he gathered from he knew not where, Oliver slid the key into the lock and pushed open the door. The inside of the cabin was comfortable and cozy, much in the way Rory’s bedroom at her parents’ place was. There was a king-sized bed to one corner, facing the fireplace. The comforter was a soft blue, thick and squishy-looking from where Oliver stood, and the walls around the bed were studded with tiny pixie-lights. Owl and phoenix feathers were woven into a string-tapestry hanging on the wall, glinting in reds and golds and greens and blues and whites. The kitchen was similar to the one Oliver and Rory shared at the apartment, a single wall with stove, sink, and fridge, with cabinets on top and bottom, as well as a short island counter with a dishwasher set into it. There was a rustic wooden table in the same driftwood style as the cabin, with four mismatched chairs standing around it. Against the wall was a bookcase filled with novels and board games, and just above the fireplace, bracketed into the stone, was a flat-screen television.